


Drop Your Guard

by flyingisland



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-13
Updated: 2016-07-13
Packaged: 2018-07-23 17:58:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7474188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flyingisland/pseuds/flyingisland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Collection of Tom/Shizuo drabbles)</p><p>I knew, in that moment, watching you swing that signpost like a gladiator’s sword against the demons of your own fear and self-loathing–</p><p>That I would never, ever allow myself to forget you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Counting Stars

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ichimatsusama](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ichimatsusama/gifts).



Shizuo is staring up at the stars.

It’s hard to spot them through the smog of the city, but there are vague hints of twinkles through the clouds. Head back, blond hair falling away to expose the shadow of his glasses hiding wide eyes, he allows his cigarette to burn down as he takes in the sight of it.

They’re leaning against the brick wall of a closing convenience store. Tom shuffles from foot to foot as the shopping bag around his elbow crinkles. They need to get going soon, but he’s drinking in these little images of Shizuo so lost in thought, and the minutes are passing by unnoticed.

He thinks of that stereotypical movie trope—a gorgeous woman breathing in a sunset, a handsome man admiring the myriad of colors playing across her skin.

 _“It’s beautiful,”_ she says, and the man thinks, _‘Yes, you are.’_

Shizuo would never say a thing like that, but he can feel the scene rolling out before them. Shizuo gazes at the vast darkness of the night sky, and he’s struggling not to pull the blond down into a kiss.

He’s not really sure what his employee would say if he were to call him beautiful, actually.

He imagines a tiny spot of color staining his cheeks as he pushes his glasses further up his nose. A quiet scoff, a straightening of his shoulders. Shizuo would think that he was kidding, surely.

“Say, Shizuo, why don’t we go see a movie tomorrow?”

The question hangs in the air between them for a few heartbeats.

The blond remembers his cigarette, flicks the ashes on the ground. Tom can see the gears turning in his head. He can feel the nervous tension vibrating between them.

“I guess,” the taller man murmurs, expectedly embarrassed, “Is there one you want to see?”

 _‘Anything as long as I’m with you,’_ is what he thinks of saying, if only to drag that flustered reaction out of the blond. He isn’t really sure when he became such a cheesy romantic.

“Not really,” he replies instead, “Just thought it would be nice to do something with our day off.”

A car pulls along the street, headlights stretching tall shadows behind them. Their darkness melds into one solid form for only a moment, and he thinks about taking the other man home with him and asking him to spend the night.

Shizuo finishes his cigarette. They’re making their way down the sidewalk when he suggests it. Shizuo is quiet at first, always so pensive, so careful in the way he decides things when he isn’t angry.

And finally, he agrees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some time ago, I decided to archive most of my Shizaya drabbles from tumblr on here, and I've been considering doing to same with my TomShizuo drabbles, so... here we are! I hope that you enjoy them!


	2. Close

Tom’s fingers play through soft strands of blond hair. His back rests against the wall of a grimy alleyway, shoes sticking in something that he isn’t entirely sure that he wants to know what it is. His dreads won’t stop catching on the jagged edges of the brick each time he tips his head back.

But there’s not a good reason to focus on any of that, really, and he can’t understand why he’s even noticing it at all. There are calloused fingers hinting at the shaft of his erection, pressing nervously at his balls. There’s a hot mouth engulfing him, a tortuously wet tongue working along the wide vein which extends from hilt to head, and his thoughts are such a frenzy of need and utter disbelief that he can barely even stand straight.

Shizuo doesn’t gag or choke, but sometimes inexperienced teeth scrape against the head, and sometimes clumsy hands might grip a little too tightly. He finds that these little imperfections only draw him nearer and nearer to his climax.

Shizuo is his and his only. Shizuo has never done this for anyone else.

They’re tucked away in a gloomy corner of the city as the morning travelers pass unknowingly by. Surely, no one would disturb them even if they were to see, but it would be troublesome, he knows, even if something deep inside of him swells at the idea of being stumbled upon in such an erotic position. Shizuo would be mortified, and the mere idea of the color that would only amplify against his cheeks sends Tom right over the edge.

He’s cumming, and Shizuo is eager to drink it in. His employee, always so eager to please, always so desperate for his approval.

His fingers tug at the taller man’s hair. His knees buckle beneath him. Shizuo is quick to catch him, to pin him firmer against the wall and hold him upright. The blond’s erection, trapped beneath the cage of dark dress-pants, stabs out into the air. Before he can find the air to speak, the other man is steadying him and rising to his feet.

They fuck, and they mess around like this, but Shizuo will never allow himself to be touched.

There are evenings when he reaches around their interlocked bodies and attempts to grasp the other man’s aching hardness, but his fingers are always batted away. There are mornings when he sneaks beneath tangles sheets, but the blond isn’t as heavy of a sleeper as he would have thought, and he always finds himself being jerked off instead before he can get too far.

It’s a little disconcerting, knowing that his lover has issues that he can’t even begin to scratch the surface of.

They haven’t talked about it because he knows that Shizuo won’t. They don’t fight because he knows that his skittish bed-mate would only run away. Shizuo is afraid of hurting him, of scaring him, and he wishes that he could settle it once and for all—

He’s not going anywhere, no matter what.

Placing himself safely back into his pants, he reaches up to draw the back of his hand along the blond’s arousal-warmed cheek. Shizuo is adjusting his erection in his pants, sliding the tip beneath the waistband and shuffling awkwardly in an attempt to make it comfortable. It’s a funny sight—one that he hasn’t actually seen in action since the awkward boners of middle school—and he can’t stop himself from laughing.

Shizuo eyes him incredulously, but doesn’t speak. He never bothers with it much anyway. It used to be off-putting when they were younger, when they were just starting out in this business, but he’s gotten so used to the pressing silence that a chatty Shizuo might actually be terrifying.

When they’re properly situated, they make their way back into the street. No one knows what they were up to, and Tom wonders if the thought of that is as exciting to Shizuo as it is to him. He thinks that maybe the blond might bring out the worst in him.

He’s so shy, but he’ll do such dirty things unprovoked. He’s so innocent at times that it’s maddening, but he’s not opposed to impromptu blowjobs in the middle of the morning. Tom finds that he has a little bit of trouble actually pinning the blond down.

“Shizuo,” he draws out carefully, watching the other man for any signs of nervousness or discomfort, “You want to get breakfast? We’re still ahead of schedule.”

Sometimes Shizuo has trouble looking at him after they mess around. Sometimes he grows so silent that he’s barely even there. Tom doesn’t understand it, but he tells himself that those little feelings will someday go away. He convinces himself that Shizuo will become more comfortable with him in time.

Shizuo nods. He thinks of brushing their knuckles together, but there are too many people around. He thinks of shooting him a smile, of whispering, _“I love you”_ , but he can already imagine the anxious tittering of the other man’s heart. Sometimes he thinks that these words might hurt somehow, that his love is the only pain that his employee can still feel, and that inkling of suspicion might hurt him more than reaching forward to reciprocate and being denied.

Oh well, he thinks. There’s a lot of time still winding out in the bleary unknown of their futures. Shizuo is walking next to him. There’s a pleasant wave of tingles working its way along his skin. He’s working at a stressful job with a dear friend and a new lover, and he feels that maybe he should learn to count his blessings before dwelling on the bad.

With time, Shizuo will allow himself to settle into their relationship more comfortably. And someday, he tells himself, these little insecurities will fade away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the lovely tomandshizuo on tumblr some time ago. Inspired by our shared love of Nick Jonas. Oh man.


	3. 2AM

It’s 2AM when Tom gets the call.

Heiwajima Shizuo is in jail again. He needs someone to post his bail.

He feigns annoyance, drags himself out of bed a little too quickly, throws on whichever clothes he can find first and almost forgets his wallet and keys on his way out the door.

He’s at the station so much quicker than he should be, out of breath, sweaty in the heavy summer heat as he steps through the door into the relief of the air conditioning. He’s eyeing the officers going about their business, the few random people waiting around and filling out paperwork. He heads toward the front desk, tugs a hand through his hair and rubs the sleep from his eyes.

“I’m here for Heiwajima Shizuo,” he greets, ignoring the flinch, the way that the clerk’s eyes widen at the name, “I know, I know. What did he do now?”

A bar fight, they tell him. Heiwajima Shizuo was caught in the middle of it.

He shouldn’t be surprised, but he is. Whatever Shizuo chooses to do in his spare time is his business, but they have work in the morning. He should know better than to be out so late drinking. And why, anyway? Why would he risk getting drunk, knowing all-too well of his tendencies toward violence? His annoyance is a little more real now, boiling deep down in the pits of his belly as the clerk takes his payment and hands him the appropriate paperwork.

The entire ordeal takes about an hour. He finds himself thinking about Shizuo sitting alone in his cell. Surely, he’s grown accustomed to the feeling of it by now. He’s found himself waiting in here more times than most people, without even so much as a mark on his record. But now, he’s really done it. Finally, after all of this time, Shizuo has gotten himself into trouble. Tom can’t say that he’s mad at him, maybe just disappointed. He thought that Shizuo was better than this. He thought that he was really trying to get better.

_“Finally got him on a charge—“_

He overhears the clipped voices of a faraway conversation. Two officers, he spots them, drinking coffee around the corner behind the desk. They’re laughing about something, patting one another on the back. He squints his eyes, stilling his pen against the paper and concentrating on their lips, on the ups and downs of their voices and what he can make out of what they’re saying.

_“Of course he wasn’t actually doing anything, but he was going to—“_

_“Looks pretty bad, doesn’t he?”_

_“—got him right over the head—“_

_“—blood everywhere—“_

_“—course no one is going to doubt that Heiwajima Shizuo was responsible—“_

His hands are shaking despite himself. He’s staring, open-mouthed and trembling. He’s not the sort of person who gets worked up about these things. He couldn’t have found himself so close to someone like Shizuo if he were. He prides himself on his ability to keep his cool in even the worst situations, but these men, they’ve set Shizuo up, and they’re _laughing_! They have the audacity to _laugh_ about it, while Shizuo is apparently bleeding and drunk in a cell all alone—

Both men look to him, hands on their batons, and only then does he realize that he’s standing. The papers which sat in his lap are scattered on the floor. The pen is shattered, bleeding ink through his knuckles and dripping gradually down his pant leg and on the floor.

He swallows hard, ignores the heat rising to his cheeks, and sits stiffly.

Eventually, he’ll gather the papers from the floor, ask to borrow another pen from the frightened clerk. He’ll wait around, watch the minutes tick by on the clock, and his rage will boil over. He’ll find that he can barely sit still, fantasizing only of socking at least one of those crooked cops right in the mouth, maybe even as hard as Shizuo himself could muster.

“Tanaka-san? You can come get him now.”

He’s lead down a hall of cells, peering in at slumbering men, at men who holler angrily, at men who make seething comments and some who even recognize him. At the very end, the guard stops, turning toward a corner cell and turning a heavy ring of keys in the lock. Tom can barely make out the figure hunched down in the back, leaning against a wall just out of sight. Long legs poke out into the center of room, skinny and unmoving. He doesn’t even twitch when the door opens.

“You’re a lucky guy, Heiwajima,” says the guard, voice quaking only slightly in his nervousness, “Your boss came all the way down here in the middle of the night to get you.”

And after a moment, Shizuo pulls himself up, and no matter how prepared Tom thought he would be to see him, he learns that Shizuo can still surprise him.

His uniform is soaked and stained. Alcohol and blood. There’s glass embedded in his face, blood dried and crusty on his cheeks. His eyes are red, irritated and tired. His clothing is tattered. He’s bruised, silent and maybe even scared. So much more reserved than Tom has ever seen him. He doesn’t look Tom in the eye, only shuffles forward and thanks the guard in a quiet huff that’s barely anything at all.

They’re almost out the door when Tom stops, watching Shizuo’s slumped shoulders, watching the whispers and jeers and the cocky grins on the officers’ faces.

“You know what,” he barks, turning on his heel, “I know exactly what’s going on here, and you’re not going to get away with this! He’s a person, you know! You can’t just do this to him! This is a violation of human rights, it’s—“

And he’s being dragged out the door.

Shizuo’s eyes are hard as he lets him go. They’re out on the sidewalk, a safe distance away, he thinks, safe enough that Shizuo trusts him not to go back in. He struggles to catch his breath, watches as Shizuo starts walking without looking back. His hands are stuffed in his pockets. He moves slowly, limping, even, and Tom has no idea what could have happened in that bar to rough him up so much. He contemplates police brutality. He wonders if Shizuo fought them, or if maybe, they just made it look that way.

It’s anyone’s guess, really. Shizuo sure isn’t going to tell him anything.

He catches up after some time, keeping a close eye on Shizuo as they head back toward their separate apartments. A little further up, they’ll part, he knows. He doesn’t know how comfortable he is letting Shizuo go home alone.

“H-hey—“

“I’m sorry.”

And he stops, cocking his head to the side. Shizuo takes a single step forward before stopping too, staring at the ground with such a forlorn expression that Tom feels just as lost. He doesn’t know how to fix this. He can’t find the right words to say.

But Shizuo continues, slowly, so quiet that he can barely even hear him, “You had to wake up and come get me… I’m sorry… I shouldn’t have let you do that. I should have just went home after work.”

Tom watches him for a long time. His throat feels tight, and Shizuo won’t look at him at all. He’s shaking too. He’s small here, standing in front of Tom like a child being reprimanded by a parent, like Tom will hit him or scream at him, like Tom is capable of being angry with him at all.

“I made trouble for you again, Tom-san… I’m sorry.”

And Tom steps forward, avoiding the glass in his cheeks, smearing the blood and the alcohol against hot skin and smiling, despite everything, forcing Shizuo to look him in the eyes.

“I’m not mad at you, Shizuo.”

Shizuo flicks his gaze away. Tom wets dry lips.

“I want to help you when things get bad, okay? I want to be here for you.”

Shizuo makes to pull away, to clear his throat and hide fiery cheeks behind a cigarette or the broken glasses that he tugs from his breast pocket.

“Shizuo—“

And Tom kisses him, softly, like maybe he’ll scare Shizuo away if he moves too quickly. And maybe he will. Shizuo is accustomed to kindness. After so many years of broken trust, of enemies of every age, race, and creed hiding away and ambushing him when he least expects it, the gentle hands of someone else, kindness where he expects to find anger, Tom isn’t sure if Shizuo knows how to react to this at all. 

They’re standing in darkened streets, so early that even the hardest of workers haven’t yet left their homes, so late that the rest of the city is still fast asleep.

Shizuo lets himself be kissed, allows himself to be pulled back to Tom’s apartment. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t complain at all as Tom cleans his wounds and puts him to bed. And in the morning, when the sun rises and they awaken to get ready for work, Tom is brushing his teeth.

And Shizuo kisses him too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Durarara!!: Rarepair Month.


	4. To You, From Me

I remember the very first time that I saw you. **  
**

The look on your face–a dog stuck in a bear trap, far too afraid and far too confused to comprehend the situation that you’d stumbled into. You were a child too small for the skin that you’d found yourself living in. Frightened, damaged…

So utterly alone.

I’d heard the rumors of the monster named Heiwajima far before your reputation became an entity of its own. I didn’t want to believe the tales, since you wouldn’t have been the first unfortunate kid in this town to earn yourself an awful nickname based on appearances alone. In grade school, there was a girl who our peers claimed must have been a demon. Her eyes sat large and round in her skull, like an unfinished doll, with porcelain skin and lips so red that you’d have sworn they were painted on.

I was too afraid to approach her back then, and maybe that old guilt might have carried me forward to greet you. Maybe it was only my self-serving nature, my need to part the waves before they ever had a chance to reach the shore.

You were howling like a wounded animal– _”I hate violence! I hate violence!”_ –a mantra that will live under your skin for all of eternity, I’m sure. Your hands were open to the sky as though you might drag reason from the clouds, as though God himself might have cracked open the endless blue and explained to you just why you were born the way that you were.

Why you were the one person chosen to bear this cross alone.

Maybe I’ve thought about it entirely too much. Maybe I’ve found myself running through the separate scenes of our introduction many times in the decade since those moments slipped right through my fingers.

I’m not a strong man. I can fight to defend myself. I can hold my own. But never, in my entire existence, have I met a force that shakes the earth quite like you.

_“Heiwajima’s temper is so hot that it could cook three-minute ramen in a minute and a half.”_

_“The force of Heiwajima cracking his knuckles is so great that it causes hurricanes across the globe–forget about a butterfly flapping its wings, the truth is so much deadlier!”_

_“That monster is so violent that he’d probably tear any girl stupid enough to sleep with him in half.”_

_“She’d be dead after their first kiss. Don’t be an idiot.”_

The stories, the gossip, the jokes. Each tale melded together into a whirlpool in my head. The world tipped into gray-scale, the movements of the crowd growing larger a safe distance away– _slow, robotic, ignored._

And I knew, in that moment, watching you swing that signpost like a gladiator’s sword against the demon’s of your own fear and self-loathing–

That I would never, ever allow myself to forget you.

Time carried on. Your sharp eyes softened, and sometimes you smiled. Sometimes you were bashful and sometimes you reached forward with gentle fingers and begged the world–someone, _anyone_ , to accept you.

Not as you were, not as a monster. Not as anything but a force working its way through time just like the rest of us. You wanted someone to peek into your life and find something worth loving. You wanted someone to reach into the tsunami of violence surrounding you and pluck you right from the middle.

I would have, if I could have, but you’ve always been so much stronger than I am. If anyone could have saved you, it would have been _you_.

You never would have seen that, of course. You never would have realized just how capable you were of mastering your anger and fizzling out the reactive violence before it ever made its way from the sparks spitting in your brain to the tips of your eager fingers.

You raged and you destroyed, and for the longest time, that was all that you believed that you were capable of.

I stopped reading comic books when I met you. None of the heroes felt that same disdain for their powers that you always did. They were unrealistic, I would admit. They were silly counterfeits of the real thing.

And the heroes, I realized–which would take far more years to admit as well–were never quite as beautiful as you either.

You might tell me that you don’t belong in this world, but that’s like calling a sunflower a weed. You stand taller and more colorful above the rest of the bodies just floating along. The lilies, the roses, they could never hope to come as close to the sunlight as you.

You’re growing stronger and more brilliant as the days pass us by. You learn control, and to love. You find yourself surrounded by a garden of flora, gnarling vines binding you to this city, to this country, to each and every one of the lives that you have touched despite the boundary of fear that keeps many at a careful distance.

And maybe you’re dandelion, just waiting to break free and find refuge in a home that will accept you. And maybe I’m the soil holding you down.

And maybe the flower metaphors are a little overdone, but I digress.

You’ve grown bigger than the skin that you’ve found yourself living in, than the boy who reached for the sky as he begged the heavens for answers to the questions that he was always far too afraid to ask.

And maybe someday you’ll leave this town behind and root yourself in the hearts of people who will find joy in your growth.

But, for now, I won’t let you.

I’m sorry.

You’ve always been so much better at accepting your fate than me. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one might have been a little weird! I'm so sorry.


End file.
